When Your Daughter Wants to Get Remarried

When your daughter

Wants to get remarried

You tell her…

It’s a good idea

What else

Are you supposed

To tell her?

It’s a good idea

He’s a different man

Her first marriage ended

Over seven years ago

She’s not the woman

She was seven years ago

Because biologically

Your cells replace themselves

Every seven years

So it’s true

That she’s a different person

Even though mentally

She’s probably worse

Than she was

When she first got married

Because a bad divorce

Is like a bad car accident

You feel it years

Afterwards

You tell her

You like her new fiance

And you do

That’s not a lie

You like lots of people

You even like some people

You probably shouldn’t like

Because they’re not nice people

And they’re not going to be nice

To people you’re supposed to love

Like your daughter

And you do love your daughter

But your daughter is nearly thirty-years-old

And you can no longer

Take care of her

You can love her

You can care for her

You can tend to her

As you did

When she got divorced

And spent eight months

Living in her old room

The room you were using

For an office

To finish a novel

That you promised yourself

Would be done

By its deadline

And instead

You found yourself

Working in the basement

Like some kind of hobbit

Typing all through the night

Next to a furnace

And several broken televisions

That you never figured out

How to recycle

You can love your daughter

When she decides to remarry

But you can’t advise her

It seems

Love has no room

For advice

She asks you questions

And she nods her head

In a way that summons

The right answers

But even then

Sometimes

You give the wrong answer

And her nods

Become shakes

And as she shakes

She begins to list

All the times

You failed to support her

Like when

She wanted to raise

Dobermans

For no reason at all

Or when you told her

That moving to China

Without being able to speak Chinese

And with no job there

Or any prospects

Wouldn’t be wise

Your daughter has no interest

In what’s wise

She never has

You would blame it on her father

Your ex-husband

But if anything

He was too wise

No, she most likely

Gets her attraction to risk

From you

And her love of bad ideas

From watching you spend your life

Pursuing the unattainable

The way tornado-chasers

Barrel into hundred mile an hour wind

When your daughter

Wants to get remarried

You don’t tell her

About the time

You almost got remarried

To a man

You would one day

Try to write a book about

In your basement

Next to a furnace

Trying to remember

How deep the cleft

In his chin was

Or what his belly button

Looked liked

Because you want

To get every part of him

Just

Right

Your daughter never met him

Because she was at college

The day you were at the DMV

And this man sitting next to you

Complimented you

On the book you were reading

And it was only after you looked at him

A second time

That you realized

He was the author of it

Two days later

He was spending the night at your house

And suddenly

A place that had been so quiet

Was so bedeviled with sound

A month after that--

While your daughter

Was refusing to go to

Any of the classes

Your tuition was paying for

Due to her alleged anxiety

That never seemed to manifest itself

Whenever there was a party

On campus to attend

But would rear its head

At the mere suggestion

Of academic effort

--You were talking about engagement

He showed up at your house

With a ring

And nothing to lose

Both of you unwilling

To go through the motions

And hesitations

Of traditional courtship

You had one marriage

Behind you

And one child

Grown and out of the house

He had two ex-wives

And a dog named Sarge

But nothing else

Holding him back

From doing something silly

Like marrying a woman

He had met at the DMV

And who flattered him

By always asking him

About his work

And telling him

That she wanted to be a writer

But she had no talent for it

And could never write anything

As brilliant as his first book

Or the one after that

Or the one after that

When your daughter

Comes home

For spring break

She asks you

Why you decided

To adopt a dog

And you don’t tell her

That the dog, Sarge,

Belonged to a man

You were planning on marrying

Before a heart attack

Changed your plans

You might have

Shared something like that

With her

Your grief

How stupid you feel

Having grief

For a man

Who, thinking about it now

Was a fling

Imagine you

Getting married again

To someone

You barely knew

Someone who

The day before he died suddenly

Bought you an old typewriter

And told you

To get to it

Who called his agent

Without telling you

And insisted

That she take you on

As a client

Based on nothing

But getting his way

Because he had made her

So much money

Years would go by

And that agent

Feeling indebted

To this now dead man

Who was once

Her most popular author

Would still call you
And tell you

That you needed

To write a book

Whatever book you could

Because you’re her client

And her clients write books

When your daughter

Got married

The first time

The man you nearly married

Lived in the air around you

That entire day

And you couldn’t help but think

That some part of that day

Should have been yours

But what a terrible thing

For a mother to think

On her daughter’s

Wedding day

And then when the marriage failed

You wondered

If you cursed it somehow

With your resentment

When your daughter wants

To get remarried

You offer to pay

For what you assume

Will be a much smaller affair

Even though you quickly realize

That your daughter wants something

Even bigger and more elaborate

Than her first wedding

Because now

She has something to prove

And you tell her

That’s

A good

Idea

Because really

What do you know

About good ideas

And bad ideas

What do you know

About anything

Really?